Hock Mason happened to be standing close to Defarge. Bertrand had sought to be friendly toward all of Merriwell’s friends after his professed “change of heart,” and now he was conversing with the youth from South Carolina.
“Twelve men gone to ‘Bones,’” he said in a low tone. “That leaves only three more.”
“And I know twenty good fellows who ought to go there,” said Hock.
“Oh, yes; that’s all right; but you see it can’t be, as only fifteen men can make it.”
“You’re not tapped yet.”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” declared Bertrand, but the confident smile was fading from his face and giving place to a look of anxiety.
What if he should not be chosen, after all? What if he should be thrown down after making every other Society in order? He felt that the disgrace would kill him. But that could not be. Merriwell had not yet appeared in search of a candidate. He would come soon, and something told Defarge that it would be the hand of Frank Merriwell that would tap him on the back. Ha! what a satisfaction it would be to use Merriwell at last as a tool in this manner! Defarge felt that there was something in making use of a hated foe in such a way that was even more satisfactory than in maiming or killing him. Of course, they would be bound together as brothers in the society, and Defarge knew he would never again lift a hand against Merriwell; but the fact that Frank must leave college in a few short weeks, to return no more, was a great comfort to Bertrand.
Another cheer went up from the great throng, telling that yet another candidate had been chosen. The happy man was seen walking swiftly toward his room, followed by the grave-faced senior who had slapped him on the back.
“‘Bones,’” said the watchers.
“Thirteen!” counted Defarge, in a husky whisper.